A Cold Cup of Tea
by Mocha Fuzz
Summary: John's life has gone down the drain since Sherlock died. He doesn't sleep, he never talks to anyone, he lets his tea cool to an undrinkable temperature. But when an unintentional message is sent to his phone will he read it in time?
1. Chapter 1

A Cold Cup of Tea - Chapter 1

By Clem Winfield

John was awake long before his alarm rang at seven thirty.

His bedroom was a bomb-site. Muddy footprints paced back and forth across the floor boards. By the door, a few empty pill bottles lay in a heap. When he reached out to turn off the alarm, he knocked over a cup of cold coffee. He watched uncaring as it pooled out onto the ground.

He was lying on his bed. The sheets rippled out from his body and the end of the bed was dirty from where his boot-clad feet had touched it. The room was dark and musty. A beam of light stretched out across his face from a gap in his curtains. He winced at the light but made no effort to move.

It wouldn't be long before he dragged himself downstairs. There wasn't much need for him to get up any earlier than nine, especially not during the weekend. Even so, he could only lie awake for so long before he succumbed to routine. Sleeping in had never been one of his strong points. So at quarter to eight he found himself in the kitchen, surrounded by unwashed dishes and the smell of instant coffee.

The newspaper was devoid of anything worth reading. John had lost his desire for the media soon after the incident, making watching the news impossible too. The TV was dull; that sounded like something _He_ would have said. And books, well, they reminded him too much of the past. This left only his thoughts to occupy him. It wasn't long before he realised he'd wasted another cup of coffee. The sink gurgled as the cold beverage swirled down the drain.

As he sat back down in his armchair a shocking thought crossed his mind. He hurried to the calendar that hung on the wall. Scanning down the page, he soon found the date he was looking for. It was July 7th.

It was his birthday.

How could he forget his own birthday? The thought almost brought a smile to his lips. His life had blurred into a mess of days and nights. It was a wonder he had remembered to change the calendar at all. But now he knew, he felt the upset sinking in. Mrs. Hudson would definitely know and she'd probably try to make an event of it. She'd invite all the people he hadn't talked to for months. Greg would be there, and Molly. She'd probably even invite Mycroft. It wouldn't be long before _He_ was brought up.

John didn't think he could do it. He couldn't face all of those people. He'd go straight over to Mrs. Hudson and have a word with her. He didn't want a party. In fact, he'd rather no-one acknowledged his birthday at all. It would be easier that way.

Yes, that was it. He'd go to Mrs. Hudson right away. But first, he'd better clean up a bit.


	2. Chapter 2

A Cold Cup of Tea - Chapter 2

By Clem Winfield

_It's John's birthday._

The thought ran through Sherlock's mind for what must have been the fifty-eighth time. He had been sitting at the table all night. In front of him lay his cell phone, the only source of light in the dark hotel room. A single question glared up from the screen. It was this that had kept him awake. Possibly one of the most answered questions in the world and he had no idea how to respond to it. It was almost laughable. All the cases he had solved and he couldn't even answer one little question? It was simply a matter of yes or no. Send or don't send. But both answers had their strengths and weaknesses. He just couldn't bring himself to choose one.

Sherlock went back to read the message. It was a short one but it would change both of their lives if he sent it. "_Happy birthday, John –SH._" It was such a trivial sentence, merely a social convention that he tended not to oblige to. But this was important. The sending of this message would result in a series of events that could lead to a good or bad result. He wasn't certain if he was ready for them yet.

If he chose yes, there was only a small chance John would even read the message. Sherlock knew for a fact that he almost never checked his cell phone these days; probably due to the influx in pity messages that had filled his inbox. There was always the small chance he would receive the message. He'd definitely be angry about it. His birthday would be ruined. A sudden thought caused Sherlock to smile. He'd be having a party; Mrs. Hudson would make sure of that. John wouldn't want a party. Maybe he'd be too busy worrying to check his phone.

Yet if he chose no, then nothing would change. They'd carry on living their separate lives. Sherlock would remain in hiding. He'd never be able to take a case in Britain again. He'd have to move elsewhere, start afresh. Meanwhile, John would continue living his life believing his best friend was dead. There was the chance that after a while he'd stop being so sad and start living again. Maybe he'd get married and have children. Maybe he'd forget all about Sherlock.

Or he'd live out his days alone. He'd keep visiting the graveyard, keep going to the therapist he knew wasn't helping. He'd spent his nights awake and alone. He'd be in all actuality a shell of a man; there would be no trace of the person he was before. Sherlock didn't think he could let that happen.

It was a frenzied decision, something completely unusual for him. He pressed yes.

He instantly regretted it.

Sherlock knew he'd have to go back now. He couldn't send something like that and remain in hiding. He'd have to face the consequences. And that meant facing a furious John. Mrs. Hudson would find out too. She'd be angry as well, at first. She'd get over it faster than John though. It could take him weeks to forgive him for what he'd done.

Or…

Sherlock leapt from the table. The chair clattered to the ground. He threw on his coat. Without a second look he left, phone in hand.

He was going to Baker Street. With any luck, John would be out. _It's his birthday, for goodness sake. He must have something to do._ All he had to do then was find a way in without being noticed and delete the message. It wasn't going to be hard. He'd investigated any and all entrances to the flat when he'd first moved in. _Yes._ He knew the perfect way to get in and out completely unnoticed.

As he sat in the taxi he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. He must be losing his touch. He'd never allowed himself to make such a stupid mistake before. _Oh well. I'm fixing it now, aren't I? I'll delete the message and leave. John will never know that anything happened._

Yet somehow he didn't think that was going to be the case.


	3. Chapter 3

A Cold Cup of Tea - Chapter 3

By Clem Winfield

"What do you mean you won't cancel it?" John said through gritted teeth. He was sitting in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. Its homely interior, with its floral wallpaper and quaint furniture, was usually comforting but today it rang a sour note. The tea in front of John had cooled to an undrinkable temperature. He wondered how many drinks he had spoiled in the past week. Meanwhile, Mrs. Hudson hid her face in the refrigerator.

"Well John," she said, busying herself with some leftover pasta. "I've already sent out the invites and-"

"Tell me the real reason."

John had learnt enough from Sherlock to know Mrs. Hudson was lying. She'd been acting odd ever since he'd knocked on her door. And her frenzied reorganising of the fridge was hardly subtle. John knew what she was about to say next; he'd been waiting for it the whole time.

With a sigh, she sat down on the chair opposite him. "Look, I'm not implying anything when I say this," she said. "But you've been awfully down ever since Sherlock… passed on and I think that spending a little time with your friends will be good for you."

And there it was. He knew this was why she'd been planning such a big celebration. She wanted him to forget all about Sherlock and live his life as though nothing had happened. John felt his stomach clench and he had to stop himself from shouting at her. No… she was just trying to be kind. She wanted to help, that's all.

It took him a moment to get himself level-headed again. "I appreciate the concern, I really do, but I don't think a party's going to help me."

"Au contraire!" Mrs. Hudson smiled cheekily. "I think it's a wonderful idea! Dear, you haven't seen your friends for months now. It's the perfect opportunity for you to start socialising again."

She then proceeded to embark on a lengthily speech about the importance of appropriate party wear. John took the opportunity to plan how he was going to approach tonight. He'd feel bad for ruining it by not showing up. It _was_ his birthday, after all. And Mrs. Hudson seemed so excited about the whole thing. He couldn't ruin this for her. If he didn't go, he'd end up at the graveyard. John made a mental note to visit after the party.

After about five minutes Mrs. Hudson finally noticed her guest of honour wasn't really listening to her streamer talk. "How about you make yourself useful and go do some shopping," she said. "And tidy up that flat! I'm not your housekeeper, you know." Thrusting a colossal shopping list into his hand, she hurried the bewildered man out the door.

"And don't forget the streamers!"


	4. Chapter 4

A Cold Cup of Tea - Chapter 4

By Clem Winfield

_Oh, Mrs. Hudson. You are a saint._

Sherlock lowered his binoculars. He'd never believed in fate. It had always been a petty excuse that other people made to get their spirits up. Yet here he was, watching on as the landlady shooed John out of the flat and not a moment too soon either. If he'd been anyone else he would have thought she was in on the secret. But she couldn't be. Sherlock certainly hadn't told her. Mycroft could have said something. That wouldn't be completely unlike his brother. And the invitation to John's party would have been the perfect opportunity to drop a hint or two. Mrs. Hudson wasn't stupid; she would have picked it up in no time. But how could she know about the text message? Maybe she didn't. It just could be a silly ploy to get him to attend the party. Or she had John's phone.

Sherlock laughed. _Nonsense! I'm over thinking things. I just need to get in and get out before either of them notices._ But as he made his way around the back of the flat he couldn't help but wonder if she did know.

The back of the block of flats was dingy and dark, as most alleyways were. Graffiti littered the walls and rubbish bins stood to attention at regular intervals. Sherlock could immediately tell which flat Mrs. Hudson owned. The square of alley that she owned was much cleaner than the rest. Any and all graffiti within a metres length of the flat had been scrubbed off or painted over. There was no litter near the back of 221B. A small pot plant sat on the back step and although it showed a few signs of wear and tear it looked in good condition. All in all, the whole area just screamed Mrs. Hudson, especially to a man like Sherlock.

A little further down from 221B there was a fire escape. It took him little effort to reach and pull down the rusty iron ladder. Within moments he was standing on the roof of the flats. It was only a slight stretch to reach down and open the window of John's bedroom enough for him to fit through. John had obviously left it ajar to let in some air.

His bedroom was in quite a state. The bed was unmade and dried mud caked the floorboards. Sherlock felt a twinge of panic when he saw the empty pill bottles. A quick look at the label told him they were temazepam, a drug used to induce sleep. Sherlock had known John was having trouble sleeping. But seeing the evidence shocked him a little. He wondered what else about him had changed.

_Focus!_

The cell phone would most likely be in this room, somewhere where he wouldn't have to look at it very often. The bedside table, perhaps? No… it was far too frequently used for that. What about the desk? The first drawer was full of medical journals. The second held a variety of pens and stationary. Finally, the bottom drawer held John's gun, now coated in a fine layer of dust.

"Useless!" Sherlock hissed. The only other possible place could be the chest of drawers. Everywhere else was too obvious, too unimaginative. Sherlock looked at his watch. He'd only been here minutes but that was still too long. He had to hurry.

The three largest drawers were immediately a no. The amount of clothing would have made it hard to conceal anything properly. That left only the two top drawers. One contained a large amount of socks. They were paired oddly and shoved in at random. It was almost infuriating to look at. Sherlock fought off the desire to organise them. He'd never realised how _messy_ John could be.

The last drawer was obviously going to contain the cell phone. Sherlock, who was flustered by now, yanked it open and was greeted by John's underwear. He threw the clusters of briefs aside. The phone was nowhere to be seen. _Where is it? It has to be here!_

The smooth texture of paper on his fingertips made him pause. Delicately, he extracted the newsprint from the drawer. It was a newspaper article. To be precise, it was the "Hat-man and Robin" article from the Sun. Why was this in John's underwear drawer? A quick search revealed more of the newspaper clippings. He'd even kept the ones about the suicide. Sherlock frowned. Were those _tear stains_?

He reached into the drawer to make sure he hadn't missed anything. His hand brushed against something cool and plastic. The phone! He snatched it out from the mess of underwear. It took him only seconds to figure out the pass code; since when had 1234 been a secure password?It was so typically John that it brought a smile to his lips. He had such faith in the goodness of others.

He had been right all along; there were dozens of pity messages in here. Sherlock had never noticed how popular John was. Granted, quite a few of them were from his sister. She did seem to care about him, even if John didn't like to think so. She'd sent a message a day for what seemed like weeks.

Today's one sat at the top of his inbox. It was almost identical to the one Sherlock had sent. It was clear by the briefness of the message that she wasn't expecting a reply. _Took her long enough._ All of her earlier messages had be lengthily and demanding. It was obvious she'd finally given up on John. _There's something else, though._ A hint of guilt was detectable in her words, as though she was trying to apologize for something but wasn't sure how.

Sherlock was so engrossed in the messages that he didn't the door open downstairs or the clatter of plates in the kitchen. He didn't hear the creak on the stairs or the rustle of a plastic bag. What he did hear was the sharp intake of breath from the doorway. He turned to face the cause of the noise. _Just the person I was trying to avoid._

"Sherlock…" John said, before collapsing on the ground.


	5. Chapter 5

A Cold Cup of Tea - Chapter 5

By Clem Winfield

John's trip to the supermarket had been cut short by the sudden realisation that he'd forgotten his credit card. After embarrassedly explaining his predicament, he had left his groceries with a supervisor and hurried back to Baker Street. He'd managed to purchase all the frozen goods with some change he'd found in his pocket. In spite of the fact that no food was at danger of spoiling or melting, he knew he'd have to hurry back with more money soon. The supervisor didn't seem too happy to be looking after his shopping and she'd probably put it back on the shelves if he wasn't back within the hour.

The only problem was he couldn't remember where he'd left his wallet. Mrs. Hudson had gone out, so she was no help there. He hurried to put away the perishables; if he left them any longer he'd forget and that would be another ten pounds down the drain. A quick search of the kitchen proved pointless and left him with an even bigger mess to clean up than before. Stepping around the shattered ceramic remains of the plate, he took his search upstairs. The only place it could really be was his bedroom.

What he saw when he entered the room was not what he had been expecting.

Sherlock, his friend, his _best_ friend was alive?

Alive and sitting amongst John's underwear.

Alive, sitting amongst John's underwear and reading his text messages.

At any other time it would have been embarrassing, funny even. But after six months of lies and mourning it was… what was it? Shocking? Infuriating? He didn't know. He didn't know anything anymore. It could be a trick. He could have finally gone insane. It wouldn't be a surprise. But no, this was real. Surely he would know if it wasn't? But he didn't. He didn't know.

What he did know was that he was about to faint. He was showing all the obvious signs: blurred vision, ringing ears, sudden queasiness. He couldn't think straight anymore. What struck him was Sherlock hadn't even noticed yet. That wasn't like him. He must be seeing things. There was no way the real Sherlock would fail to notice someone standing right behind him.

It was his breathing that caught his attention. The shock caused his breath to catch in his throat. It was sudden enough to startle Sherlock. He turned to face the door. There was a look of annoyed surprise on his face, as though he was in the middle of something important and was shocked that someone dared to interrupt him. John felt the symptoms worsen. He only had moments before he would faint.

He had to say something. Anything. Just to break the silence.

"Sherlock…" he began.

The last thing he saw was his friend rushing towards him.


	6. Chapter 6

A Cold Cup of Tea - Chapter 6

By Clem Winfield

Sherlock was making tea when John awoke. He knew he was being boringly obvious about the apology that was soon to come; he'd pulled the same trick during the Baskerville case. But subtlety wasn't what he was aiming for. He wanted to lessen John's anger, even if only by a little. It would make the upcoming drama much less unbearable. And even if he didn't drink it, it would give Sherlock something to hide his face in as he was shouted at. That was always a positive.

"So you are real then."

Sherlock turned to see John sitting up on the couch. He wasn't looking over; clearly the coffee table was a far more interesting thing to look at. Sherlock failed to see the need to reply to the statement.

"How'd I get downstairs?"

Sherlock placed the mug on the coffee table. "I carried you."

"I do have a bed, you know."

Sherlock sat down in his armchair. "I know."

He could tell John was revelling in the awkwardness of the conversation. _Just as well, _he thought. _I'd rather be humiliated than yelled at. _Even so, he knew he wasn't out of the doghouse yet. He could see the way John's fists were clenched at his sides, the way he kept his gaze on everything but Sherlock. He wasn't exactly being subtle.

"So why'd you bring me down here?" John pressed.

"I wanted to make sure you weren't concussed," Sherlock lied. "You hit your head quite hard when you fell." That was also a lie. He'd caught John when he'd fainted. He'd brought him downstairs to keep an eye on him. Something about the situation that had arisen led him to believe this would probably be his last meeting with John. He just wanted to see him, to imprint his image into the surface of his brain before he was sent away again. _Is that too much to ask?_

"Is that right?" By the condescending tone of John's voice Sherlock knew that he wasn't going to let this drop easily. But wait... was that a sigh? Sherlock looked up from his tea to see John slumping in his chair. The joke had worn off, exposing the hurt beneath. _Why couldn't I have left him be? _Sherlock braced himself for the worst.

"Why didn't you tell me, Sherlock?" John's voice was low and angry, with the unpleasant sound of sadness tainting his words. "You know you could have, so why didn't you?"

Sherlock's gaze travelled to the untouched cup of tea in front of him. "Drink it."

"What?"

"Drink your tea." Sherlock could tell he'd said the wrong thing. John rose from his chair. His arms shook at his sides. Yet still he wouldn't look up.

"Drink my tea? Drink my bloody tea! Sherlock, you've been gone for six bloody months and all you have to say is "_drink your tea_"? I thought you were _dead_, Sherlock. We all thought you were dead. Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Molly, hell, the whole of England, you lied to everyone! You lied to _me,_ Sherlock. And all I want to know is why. I understand why you lied to everyone else. That's not the issue. I just want to know why you lied to me."

Sherlock decided this wasn't the best time to tell him that Molly knew. He was clearly angry and judging by his texts Molly had made an effort to stay in touch. John probably wouldn't want to know he was being lied to by two people at once.

"I'm waiting, Sherlock. You can't fake your way out of this one."

That could have hurt, if he'd been paying attention. But right at that moment Sherlock was too busy fighting an internal battle with himself. He could make something up. Maybe he could lie and say Moriarty had planted a microphone on him? No.. John wouldn't believe something like that. He could say he didn't have a choice, that he'd been taken hostage... no. That wouldn't work either. He'd have to do it. The truth was the only option, no matter how emotional it was.

"Well?"

Sherlock sighed. "I couldn't tell you, John." he began.

"I gathered that."

Sherlock ignored John's attempt to rile him up. "If I'd told you," he continued. "It would have meant uprooting you from London. I wouldn't have been able to stay here after that. But you'd made yourself a life here. You had friends, a job. A love life. I couldn't take you away from all of that, John. Just because I messed up my life didn't mean I had to mess up yours. But.. it looks like I did anyway."

Sherlock looked over at John. He was still angry. _Why is he angry?_ He hadn't been told a lie. And he still wouldn't meet Sherlock's eyes. _What's going on?_

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock." John growled.

Sherlock frowned a little. He couldn't see anything ridiculous about what he'd said. He'd told the truth, John _knew_ that. If anyone was being ridiculous it would've been him, with his awkwardly averted eyes and constant jibing. Couldn't he just shout and get it over with?

"I don't understand, John."

"Oh no, of course you don't understand!" Clearly Sherlock had said the wrong thing _yet again_. "You deleted emotions from your "hard-drive", or whatever you bloody call it long ago, didn't you? Well I hate to break it to you, Sherlock, but if you had any knowledge of emotion what-so-ever you'd understand that I'm bloody furious right now! You're not stupid, or at least, not in most areas. You knew that I would have come along if you'd left, but God, Sherlock, I'm capable of bloody free will! I wouldn't have gone without weighing up the consequences first. You know, I was right. Sometimes, for someone of your intellect you _are_ spectacularly ignorant."

John slumped in his armchair. He looked small and defeated, as though his body had been drained of any and all will to go on. Sherlock found himself speechless. A tense silence fell over the flat.

It was John who spoke first. With his face buried in his hands his voice was almost illegible. The weakness of it didn't help much either.

"I said, I can't do this anymore."

Panic overcame Sherlock for a few heartbeats. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean, Sherlock. I can't fight with you like this. Not now. Not today." John's voice was hesitant. He wasn't sure if what he was saying was right; that much was certainly clear. "I think you should go."

It was the sentence Sherlock had been dreading from the moment he had sent the message that morning. All at once his world had come crashing down. Without John, he'd become the same old cocky, heartless man he'd always been, the man he'd been for the last six months. Sherlock knew this. He knew there was no way to avoid it. It was his nature, through and through. What struck him was that John didn't know that. Or that if he did, he didn't care.

Before he could think twice, Sherlock found himself crouching in front of John.

"Look at me."

John stiffened. "What?"

"You heard me. You've been fighting to keep your eyes on everything but me from the moment you woke up. So look at me."

At first Sherlock thought John would ignore him. That'd he'd force him out of the flat with eyes clamped firmly shut and he'd never see him again.

But then it happened.

Sherlock found himself looking into the eyes he'd been dreaming of ever since the day he'd "died".


	7. Chapter 7

A Cold Cup of Tea - Chapter 7

By Clem Winfield

It's a funny thing, the amount of emotion that can be conveyed through a person's eyes. When John found himself looking into Sherlock's he'd thought it was a joke for a few moments. Sherlock didn't _cry_. He was probably standing behind him right now with some idiotic grin on his face. But sure enough, the eyes he was staring at did belong to the man. Which was a whole different experience all together.

There's a saying that goes "the eyes are the windows to the soul". In this case, they were. Sherlock, who was normally so guarded when it came to emotions and the like, had opened those windows. And not just for anyone. For him. John's heart skipped a little when the thought crossed his mind.

With that one look John felt himself forgiving Sherlock for the past six months. Sure, there was a little remorse still there, but it was childish and could only be removed with time. Sherlock had apologised and really, truly meant it, even if it wasn't verbally, and that was enough for him.

John didn't know how long it was before either of them spoke. Frankly, he didn't really care.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said.

"I know."


	8. Chapter 8

A Cold Cup of Tea - Chapter 8

By Clem Winfield

As it turned out, the party that night wasn't so bad after all. Sherlock spent the night cooped up in his room. Neither of them thought it was the right time for him to reveal that he was actually alive. Besides, Anderson was out there. He'd probably say something stunningly stupid and antagonistic as per usual. Sherlock decided that was enough repellent to keep him away from the celebrations.

John popped in quite a few times, sometimes with food or drink and sometimes just to check on him. Sherlock knew that John was afraid he'd leave again. And in its own way that was quite endearing. A little annoying, but endearing all the same.

He still hadn't told John that Molly and Mrs. Hudson knew. Mrs. Hudson had kindly informed Sherlock of his brother's hints when she "accidentally" came into his room while "looking for the bathroom". She wasn't surprised at his return. In fact, he thought she seemed quite pleased, as though order was finally restored to her household. She was quite eager to pry when it came to how John had reacted. Sherlock decided she still carried the theory that the pair were together. _Let her think what she wants._

He was reading when John finally came in to announce the guests had all left. _What a relief_. The book had become quite dull as the hours passed on; it was one of those war novels that John seemed to enjoy so much. Personally, Sherlock found it all too predictable. He practically threw it across the room when John came in.

"Not enjoying the book then?" John said, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

Sherlock chuckled. "Not particularly."

A comfortable silence fell over them for a few minutes. Sherlock was itching for conversation after the hours of almost uninterrupted quiet, but he could tell that John was enjoying the time to recover. It had been a long day and he deserved some rest.

"So what made you come back?" John said.

"I sent a message to your phone that I probably shouldn't have, so I came here to delete it."

John nodded. "What was the message?"

"Just happy birthday. Simple, really."

"Oh," said John. "So why was it such a big deal that I couldn't read it?"

Sherlock sighed. _More touchy-feely stuff._ "I was afraid."

John was quiet for a moment. "Of what?"

"I was afraid that you'd tell me to leave and I'd never see you again."

At first John didn't reply. The minutes seemed to tick by like hours. Sherlock fidgeted a little. _Did I say something wrong? _He watched as John stood to pick up the discarded novel.

"I wouldn't do that." he said finally.

"You almost did."

"Yes," John said. "I almost did, but I didn't. You stopped me."

"Yes."

Before things could go quiet again John spoke.

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock was a little shocked. He wasn't expecting an apology from John, of all people. He didn't do anything wrong. Sherlock made sure to voice his opinions.

"I know, you don't think I need to apologize," said John. "But I do. I'm sorry for making you feel afraid like that."

"It's fine," Sherlock said, smiling.

John shook his head. "No it's not. I shouldn't have done that."

"You didn't know."

"No, but I should've." John was frowning now. Sherlock was confused_. Why is he so determined to apologize?_

"John, there is only so much your mind is capable of. How are you supposed to know something you've never been told?" Sherlock knew this would hit a sour note with John. He fought to keep a straight face as John's "defense mode" activated.

"Pardon?" John said. His face was so pouty and childish that Sherlock couldn't help but laugh.

To Sherlock's delight John was soon laughing with him. John had a nice laugh. He was glad he could hear it again.

When the laughs had died out they found themselves looking up at the ceiling. Sherlock could feel John's head touching his. It was calm and quiet. It was everything he'd been suffocating in for the last six months. Yet somehow, when experiencing it with John it was almost fun. Sherlock felt a sudden rush of emotion for his friend.

"I missed you, John."

Sherlock heard John chuckle beside him. "I missed you too, Sherlock".

An idea crossed his mind. It was something he'd been thinking about for a long time. Sherlock's hand found John's.

He heard John's breath catch. For a moment he thought he'd pull away, that he'd shout or shun him. But John made no effort to leave. He didn't yell. He didn't do anything of the sort.

In fact, he shuffled a little closer.


End file.
